Re: theater; aisle seat
She clicks, she clacks, and she slides in beside him. Terrible idea. He takes the glass from her and tries to remember what's so bad about the things he wants. He can usually come up with a laundry list of reasons for the slightest infraction, but now it's all wiped clean. It feels pretty amazing to grope in the dark for doubts and find none.
He likes her, with her face sharp as a sculpture, neck draped in glass beads and gold. He takes the champagne glass from her. His fingers are cool when they ghost against hers, taking the glass. The gesture is overtly flirtatious, but the interest is vague, drowsy, slow to rouse. All the better to eat you with. He wonders if she'll catch on and run. Wanting is such a smothered thing in his day to day life that it's taking some time to get the rusty gears back in motion gain to make it flow.
He's blonde, with long, pale eyelashes. His mouth is hard, though, hard as his bruise blue eyes. "People have called me that before," he says.
He drinks half the glass of champagne in a short swallow. His throat is dry, but it doesn't help, and when he hands it back to her the move is slightly abrupt for someone who seemed so lethargic half a second before. "So what are you looking for? A fuck, or what?" That seems logical, with her swooping neckline and body language at a slant toward him. "I promise you, I'm more than you just bargained for with that glass of champagne."